the bright orange seat. “How’d you spot them anyway?” he asked absently while he plotted out his next move. Money, passport, and airport, in that order, though he had to fit in a quick trip to the library. If Dimitri and his hounds showed up in Madagascar, they’d just lose them again. He was on a roll. “You’ve got a sharp eye, sugar,” he told her. “We’d’ve been in a bad way if there’d been a welcoming committee back in the hotel room.”
Adrenaline had carried her through the streets. The need to survive had driven her hard and fast until the moment she’d sat down. Drained, Whitney turned her head and stared at his profile. “They killed Juan.”
“What?” Distracted, he glanced over. For the first time he noticed that her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank. “Juan?” Doug drew her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The waiter? What’re you talking about?”
“He was dead in your room when I went back. There was a man waiting.”
“What man?” Doug demanded. “What’d he look like?”
“His eyes were like sand. He had a scar down his cheek, a long, jagged scar.”
“Butrain,” Doug mumbled. Some of Dimitri’s excess slime and as mean as they came. He tightened his grip on Whitney’s shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”
Her eyes, dark as aged whiskey, focused on his again. “I think I killed him.”
“What?” he stared at the elegant, fine-boned face. “You killed Butrain? How?”
“With a fork.”
“You—” Doug stopped, sat back, and tried to take it in. If she hadn’t been looking at him with big, devastated eyes, if her hand hadn’t been like ice, he’d have laughed out loud. “You’re telling me you did in one of Dimitri’s apes with a fork?”
“I didn’t stop to take his pulse.” The train pulled up at the next stop and, unable to sit still, Whitney rose and pushed her way off. Swearing and struggling through bodies, Doug caught up with her on the platform.
“Okay, okay, you’d better tell me the whole thing.”
“The whole thing?” Abruptly enraged, she turned on him. “You want to hear the whole thing? The whole bloody thing? I walk back into the room and there’s that poor, harmless boy dead, blood all over his starched white coat, and some creep with a face like a road map’s holding a gun to my throat.”
Her voice had risen so that passersby turned to listen or to stare.
“Keep it down,” Doug muttered, dragging her toward another train. They’d ride, it didn’t matter where, until she was calm and he had a more workable plan.
“You keep it down,” she shot back. “You got me into this.”
“Look, honey, you can take a walk any time you want.”
“Sure, and end up with my throat slit by someone who’s after you and those damn papers.”
The truth left him little defense. Shoving her down into a corner seat, he squeezed in beside her. “Okay, so you’re stuck with me,” he said under his breath. “Here’s a news flash—listening to you whine about it gets on my nerves.”
“I’m not whining.” She turned to him with eyes suddenly drenched and vulnerable. “That boy’s dead.”
Anger drained and guilt flared. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arm around her. He wasn’t used to comforting women. “You can’t let it get to you. You’re not responsible.”
Tired, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Is that how you get through life, Doug, by not being responsible?”
Curling his fingers into her hair, he watched their blurred twin images in the glass. “Yeah.”
They lapsed into silence with both of them wondering if he was telling the truth.
C H A P T E R
3
She had to snap out of it. Doug shifted in his first-class seat and wished he knew how to shake the grief out of her. He thought he understood wealthy women. He’d worked for—and on—plenty of them. It was just as true, he supposed, that plenty of them had worked on him. The trouble was, had always been, that he
Adrenaline had carried her through the streets. The need to survive had driven her hard and fast until the moment she’d sat down. Drained, Whitney turned her head and stared at his profile. “They killed Juan.”
“What?” Distracted, he glanced over. For the first time he noticed that her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank. “Juan?” Doug drew her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The waiter? What’re you talking about?”
“He was dead in your room when I went back. There was a man waiting.”
“What man?” Doug demanded. “What’d he look like?”
“His eyes were like sand. He had a scar down his cheek, a long, jagged scar.”
“Butrain,” Doug mumbled. Some of Dimitri’s excess slime and as mean as they came. He tightened his grip on Whitney’s shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”
Her eyes, dark as aged whiskey, focused on his again. “I think I killed him.”
“What?” he stared at the elegant, fine-boned face. “You killed Butrain? How?”
“With a fork.”
“You—” Doug stopped, sat back, and tried to take it in. If she hadn’t been looking at him with big, devastated eyes, if her hand hadn’t been like ice, he’d have laughed out loud. “You’re telling me you did in one of Dimitri’s apes with a fork?”
“I didn’t stop to take his pulse.” The train pulled up at the next stop and, unable to sit still, Whitney rose and pushed her way off. Swearing and struggling through bodies, Doug caught up with her on the platform.
“Okay, okay, you’d better tell me the whole thing.”
“The whole thing?” Abruptly enraged, she turned on him. “You want to hear the whole thing? The whole bloody thing? I walk back into the room and there’s that poor, harmless boy dead, blood all over his starched white coat, and some creep with a face like a road map’s holding a gun to my throat.”
Her voice had risen so that passersby turned to listen or to stare.
“Keep it down,” Doug muttered, dragging her toward another train. They’d ride, it didn’t matter where, until she was calm and he had a more workable plan.
“You keep it down,” she shot back. “You got me into this.”
“Look, honey, you can take a walk any time you want.”
“Sure, and end up with my throat slit by someone who’s after you and those damn papers.”
The truth left him little defense. Shoving her down into a corner seat, he squeezed in beside her. “Okay, so you’re stuck with me,” he said under his breath. “Here’s a news flash—listening to you whine about it gets on my nerves.”
“I’m not whining.” She turned to him with eyes suddenly drenched and vulnerable. “That boy’s dead.”
Anger drained and guilt flared. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arm around her. He wasn’t used to comforting women. “You can’t let it get to you. You’re not responsible.”
Tired, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Is that how you get through life, Doug, by not being responsible?”
Curling his fingers into her hair, he watched their blurred twin images in the glass. “Yeah.”
They lapsed into silence with both of them wondering if he was telling the truth.
C H A P T E R
3
She had to snap out of it. Doug shifted in his first-class seat and wished he knew how to shake the grief out of her. He thought he understood wealthy women. He’d worked for—and on—plenty of them. It was just as true, he supposed, that plenty of them had worked on him. The trouble was, had always been, that he
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